Partial Resolution
by Shiori-tan
Summary: "If you have strength, then you can do whatever you please with it." The boy finds his resolution, no matter how incomplete it may be. One-shot, Hibari-centric, AU-ish, slightly OOC, mild-ish swearing, practically nonexistent 1827 if you squint like mad. R&R! :D


**This was...it deviated a LOT from my original intentions, and it ended up like..this..yeah ._. I am speechless. But stories can take a life of their own, so I shall not fight it. Not too much anyway.**

**Anyway, it is Hibari-centric, if you can tell, because, like my first one-shot, Hibari's name is never mentioned, and that amuses me more than it should XD There is also a person who should be dead there (can you guess who? .) so I guess it can be considered AU-ish? There is also 1827 if you use a microscope and really REALLY squint (yes, it's practically nonexistent). **

**I hope Hibari didn't end up too OOC *winces***

**Warnings: slightly OOC Hibari, VERY slight swearing, AU-ish, and general plotlessness ._.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own KHR, Amano-sensei does.**

**Happy reading! :D**

* * *

_**Resolution**_

_"But who can remember pain, once it's over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind." ~Margaret Atwood_

I am seven when I find myself caught again; cornered like a mouse would be cornered by starving cats.

On hindsight, I should've seen this coming and taken precautions. If you've been bullied once you should always be prepared to be bullied again, and really I wasn't thinking at all, was I, when I decided to take that deserted shortcut home.

But I have better things to worry about then my blatant stupidity, no matter how worrisome it may be. I try to duck and run, but what these brutes lack in brains, damn do they make up for it in brawn. They're six feet tall _giants_, with thick arms that pick me up and fling me to the ground as if I were a mere piece of paper, fragile enough to be blown away by the wind. And God knows I am not _fragile_; just a seven year old boy with a hardened heart and no strength to show for it.

At this age, bullies are, for all their arrogance, just plain weak. They go in around in groups and pretend to act tough, unless of course there are adults around, during which they regress back into the kindergarten school kids they really are. This knowledge is why I am not afraid, but again my fearlessness has yet to manifest itself into actual strength I can use.

One of their fists connects with my face, and I can't even register the pain, only that I'm definitely going to get a black eye and the blood on my clothes is going to be _impossible_ to wash off.

* * *

I am eight when my father loses his job, and things just go downhill from there.

We were never that well off to begin with, and I've lived in a rather run-down neighbourhood for my whole life (and thus the prevalence of bullying and the like). But now our sole breadwinner has been cut down, and he does not seem to be picking himself up any time soon.

He is supposedly out looking for a job every day, but the smell of alcohol and seedy nightclubs that seeps in and pervades the air whenever he opens the front door seems to contradict his claims.

Mother is desperate; her various odd jobs cannot provide for half of our basic necessities, and that's not including the preposterous amount of beer and cigarettes that's been added to our bill as of late.

She pleads with him to get his act together, and he refuses with a slap and some yelling.

I hide in my bed, relying on the pounding rain to drown out the shouts and sobbing, and try to ignore the growing feeling of guilt and uselessness that has found a place in my heart.

* * *

I am eight and two weeks when he loses it and, in a fit of drunken fervour, stabs her in the shoulder with a kitchen knife, and I am left to clean up the mess with water, old filthy pieces of cloth, prayers to a God I've never believed in, and countless _countless _tears.

* * *

I am nine when I decide I want to get stronger.

I am running down the street, away from the angry yells and threats of the shopkeeper, running off empty-handed. There are police sirens in the distance, or it could just be my imagination, because there is fear, and fear makes me irrational, illogical; fear has always been _unwanted_.

I run and run, not stopping, unable to stop, even with my burning lungs and legs that feel as if they are about to detach themselves from my aching malnourished body and run off ahead of me. I run and run, and consequently bang into an innocent pedestrian, causing me to lose my footing and fall to the ground, a panting, frantic mess.

Not wasting a second, I scramble to my feet and lurch forward, practically able to hear the footsteps and yells of the police who are out to get me (or it could just be _fear_, yet again, but I'm not willing to take the risk).

A pale hand on my head stops me, and I find myself looking into a pair of icy-blue eyes.

Despite the situation, I somehow manage to take in the details. A foreigner, from the looks of it, with pale blond hair and a black trench coat. His expression is emotionless until I snarl and try to push his hand off, and _then_ of all things he smirks, a feral smirk in what seems to be amusement and I feel like punching his face.

The footsteps and yells get closer, and I curse inwardly and attempt to push the unwanted limb off my head again (and _how _the hell was he strong enough to hold me back with just one arm?). There is no response, only a raised eyebrow as he finally notices the people running towards us, and with a chill of fear I begin to think that this stranger intends to let them catch me.

Until, without a word, he pushes me aside and, whipping out what looks like a pair of metal _sticks_, charges at them. I watch, wide-eyed, as three, four, five are taken down, one by one, and it is surreally beautiful how they seem to be dropping like flies, an unstoppable domino effect.

When it is all over and all are defeated, and I am still unable to move, I watch as he prods a police officer with the tip of his shoe, as if unwilling to get it dirty. "Not even worth my time," he mutters, scoffing, and turns to look at me with a disapproving look. "You couldn't even handle this?"

I am at a loss as to what to do, as to why this utter _stranger_ has helped me, so I settle for staring at him with a disbelieving (and I am sure, stupid) expression on my face.

He frowns. "Are you mentally challenged?"

My innate pride kicks in at the mere _thought _that I am somehow lacking in mental capacities, and I make an attempt to respond. "W-Why?"

"Hn?"

"Why did you do this?" _This unnecessary action, something I could have handled myself,_ I want to add, but even all my pride can't make it sound convincing, not now when he had to beat up those guys for me.

My attempts to sound intelligent failed, as he didn't look too impressed with my question. He keeps silent for a while, and I am considering making a run for it when-

"If you have strength, then you can do whatever you please with it."

He has walked up to me without me realising it, and wordlessly he drops the weapons-metal sticks, now bloody-at my feet. "Keep them. They're dirty."

He seems to drift away like a cloud, leaving as silently as he came, and only after five minutes of standing there dumbfounded do I pick up the weapons and walk home.

It didn't matter that I was going to go home to a beating for my failure to return home with food.

It didn't matter that I was going to go home to my mother's tearful apologies and assurances (false, completely) that she would find a way out.

I had found my resolution.

Or part of it, anyway.

* * *

I am ten when everything boils over and Mother, my dear sweet mother, finds escape in the crashing waves of the ocean, leaving me feeling remarkably empty and scrambling to fill the void she has left with my partial resolution. There is no pain, I try to convince myself. There was never a need for pain.

I am eleven when relatives finally discover my situation and come for me, after one whole year, during which time my strength had _finally_ decided to manifest itself (after keeping me waiting for a bloody four years), rendering their interference, though appreciated, relatively unneeded.

I am thirteen when I decide that to believe in is to rely on, and one can never find strength in reliance.

I am fourteen when I enter Namimori Middle, and, finding the previously unheard of peaceful environment almost heaven-sent, decide that I want to protect it (better an inanimate object than a living breathing creature).

I am fifteen when I stop visiting the cemetery with flowers, and perhaps, I think, perhaps my resolution is enough to survive on in its entirety.

I am sixteen when the herbivore enters the stage and causes me to _believe_, causes my resolution to start unravelling, and bloody hell, like _fuck_ I will let that happen.

_**fin.**_


End file.
